


Captured

by pokeasleepingsmaug



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hate Sex, Love/Hate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 14:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12960984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokeasleepingsmaug/pseuds/pokeasleepingsmaug
Summary: Ivar and the reader, a shield maiden, are captured by their enemies and thrown into a room with one bed. Forced bed-sharing trope from whenimaunicorn on Tumblr.





	Captured

“Do you really think that’s going to work?” You ask, exasperated, watching Ivar trying to fit the blade of a knife between the door and its frame to lift the locking bar on the outside of the door. The blade was too wide though, and he was growling and cursing as he tried to force it through anyway.

“Shut up and check the window,” Ivar ordered, and you crossed your arms over your chest.

“I already did. The castle’s built on the top of a cliff. We climb out the window and tumble to an inglorious death on sharp rocks.” Ivar turned to glare at you, a look of pure rage on his face, and you had to fight the urge to remind him this was his fault. 

“This is all your fault,” Ivar huffed, rolling his jaw in frustration as he glowered around the room. You only snorted and kicked off your boots, pointedly ignoring him as you climbed into the single small bed in the center of the room. “What do you think you are doing? You sleep on the floor, shieldmaiden! I am your commander!”

“I saved your life!” You remind him hotly, and this stops him short for a moment. “I’m sleeping in the bed. I saved your life.”

“And if you’d just let them kill me, we wouldn’t now be captives!” You could feel your mouth flop open in sheer disbelief. There’s no reasoning with the youngest son of Ragnar, you should have remembered that. You throw yourself angrily to the bed, rolling over and facing the window. The distinctive dragging noise of Ivar crawling toward you is followed by a grunt and the creaking and sagging of the bed under his weight as he heaves himself up. “Do not turn away from me, Y/n.” Ivar’s voice is a menacing whisper, his breath crawling over your cheek like the promise of violence. 

You roll over with an annoyed huff, brows lowered, and even though you felt his breath on your skin you aren’t prepared for how close he is to you. “Fine, Ivar,” you hiss, injecting as much venom into your voice as you can, “we can share the bed.” You roll back over, feeling Ivar settle down beside you. 

“You’re insufferable. If you didn’t fight like the Christian devil, I would sacrifice you to Odin. My best shieldmaiden,” he muses. “Surely that would bring the Allfather’s favor on me, hmm? He demands the sacrifice of those things we love the most, and yet I cannot bring myself to give you to him.” You feel his shrug. “And so, here we are, captured because of my weakness.” He shrugs again, and you feel him rolling over to face you. “Why didn’t you just let them kill me, Y/n? Then you would be free to serve an easier master.”

The question is so ridiculous, you roll over to face him again. His face looms into your view, mere inches from yours, and despite the grime and dried blood covering his pale skin, he’s beautiful. “I do not wish to serve an easy master. I want to serve one worth dying for. Sacrifice me to the Allfather, I do not care. I will wait for you in Valhalla and then we will fight again.”  
You move to turn back over, but Ivar’s warm, callused hand on your shoulder stops you. “Do not tempt me to kill you,” he warns, his striking eyes burning into yours as he closes the small distance between your mouths. His kiss sends shocks of heat and cold over your body like breaking waves. His lips are hard, demanding your surrender, and you refuse to give it to him. He growls into your mouth angry and insatiable, and still you do not back down beneath his onslaught.

His hand cracks against your jaw, leaving a dull throbbing in its wake, and you bite his lip so hard you taste blood. One of his hands finds your throat and he presses down lightly, a threat that doesn’t scare you. You turn onto your back, an instinct more than anything, and Ivar is quick to shift his weight to cover you. Part of you feels this encounter has been inevitable from the beginning: from the very first time you felt his eyes on you as you fought off the Saxons surrounding you. Just a shieldmaiden, the daughter of a simple blacksmith, and yet from that moment on you’d been Ivar’s constant companion on the battlefield.

It was a strange arrangement, considering you couldn’t stand each other off of it. He was a rash, impetuous man, and you were not the type to just roll over beneath the sullen prince’s unpredictable rages. It infuriated him, and he took that fury out on you now. 

His hand left your throat to throw your belt to the floor and tug your breeches down over your hips, and you weren’t sure when in this frantic scramble his own breeches had been undone but the head of his cock was already pressing against your slit. You hated the slickness he found there, hated the smug chuckle that fell from his smirking lips as his piercing eyes considered you. “And all this time, I thought you hated me, Y/n,” he purred, his hand returning to your throat. “Have you been dishonest with me?”

“No!” you protest. “You’re sullen and unpredictable and ruthless. But you’re cunning and brilliant and worth dying for.” 

“That sounds almost like love,” Ivar muses, and you writhe beneath him as his blunt head begins to push into you. 

“I would rather you sacrifice me to the Allfather than lie with me,” you spit at him, but your hips are betraying you, shifting to take him into you quicker, and his breath hitches in a moan. 

“Then tomorrow I will sacrifice you,” he promises, voice dark and full of the promise of pain, and you do not doubt the violence in him even as he begins to fuck ruthlessly into you. His pace is punishing, and the girth of him fills you almost painfully. It seems fitting, somehow. Nothing with Ivar could ever be completely pleasant, and yet you find that the discomfort only makes you want him more. 

You mewl as he shifts his hips to hit a new angle, his arms framing your head, knuckles clasping into the bed-linens so hard his knuckles are white. He thrusts into you once, hard and sudden, and leans down to catch your ragged gasp by pressing his lips to yours. He’s rough and his teeth scrape against your lips, and even something that should be gentle is a punishment that you know you deserve. “Next time I will let you die,” you promise, and his face is satisfied as he looks down at you, his blow pupils making his eyes look black and deranged. 

“Good. Better death than captivity, Y/n. You failed me by saving my life today, and you will regret it.”

His thrusts are rough and deep, hitting an angle so deep he has you half-sobbing from some sharp, pain-edged pleasure. His hand is hard on on your throat, fingers inexorably closing, and your hips buck against him You hate your body for submitting to him, and in some form of twisted vengeance your fingers dig into the skin of his back until you feel lines of blood beneath your hands. Ivar is howling, screaming like an angry beast, and as you bring your fingers to your mouth to taste his blood, his thrusts turn savage.

He’s like a monster, some fiend that haunts the bowels of tall Northern mountains, and his gods-given fury is all directed into making you submit. As you’re clenching around him, screaming like you’re being flayed alive, his smirk is triumphant and wild. His hips stutter into you, and when normal men would melt against you with shaking muscles, he only slaps your face with something that feels strangely like affection, and rolls off of you. 

“I might still sacrifice you after we escape,” Ivar informs you, panting from his exertions, “but for tonight you are safe.” He leans over you, hums in consideration, and drops his head like a striking snake to bite hard into your neck. You know it’s possession, not affection, causing him to leave a mark on you. He settles down into the bed, and he doesn’t pull you close against him. There’s something unsettled in the pit of your stomach, but you try to ignore it, ignore the breathing of the crazed warrior behind you, and settle into sleep. You know you’ve won, simply because you didn’t break under his punishment, and he doesn’t throw you from the bed.


End file.
